Boracay, party island

Even at midnight, the green tea at Lonely Planet Cafe near the Regency Hotel in Boracay looked too green for comfort. A feet away, tourists—mostly girls from as far as Korea, China, US and Europe— in tight minimal summer clothing were grinding their hips against the frenetic urgent beat, their hands raised up high swaying like tree branches being battered by the monsoon winds. Lumen, Kathy and I were not daunted. After all, neither we were there for tea nor the humanly distraction, but a place to sit, chat, breathe fresher air, and feel the white powdery sands push up through our toes. We just had a long walk along the shorelines under the gaze of the distant stars. We needed the break to clear our senses overwhelmed by the discussions that never seem to end.
 

Surveying the scene, I realized how Boracay has become a place of Becoming, where souls regulated by social mores and expectations could be what they want to be. Then they return to their prim-and-proper selves once they get back into their natural abode.

 

“It has become a place to get laid,” says one inebriated soul whose identity I cannot recall. “It's more like a place where predators of all types converge—sexual, corporate, or commercial or the combination thereof,” says another intoxicated "social philosopher."

 

Harsh assessment, shall I say. Unfair.

 

Despite the overcrowding, there are still some nooks an crannies in the Island where one could enjoy solitude, a corner to write poems and contemplate the meaning of life and the universe. For the right price, of course.